Archive of Our Own

Happy Birthday, Peter Parker

“My audience is God, because who else could understand me? Who else has been dead twice?”

• Margaret Atwood, Half-Hanged Mary

“‘I exist.’ In thousands of agonies—I exist.”

• Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers

A forgotten boy is a lonely boy is a free boy. 

He moves through the streets, visits the same convenience store he went to his whole life, and orders the same meal from the same restaurant that says every guest is part of their family. 

“Welcome to Tiger Garden,” the owner, Mrs. Park, who watched the boy come in as a child, as a boy, as a teenager, and now as an adult. “What would you like?”

He gives her the same smile he has always given. She does not return it. 

“I’ll take…” He stops for a second. “제육볶음 하나. 그리고 만두 추가해 주세요.”

She blinks before smiling now. Maybe it’s from deep within her memories that even magic couldn’t wipe away. Maybe it was pity. “Your order will be ready in fifteen.” He hands her the cash. “Excellent pronunciation, by the way,” she adds. 

“감사합니다.”

“You speak with a Busan accent; have you ever been there?”

“Planning on it,” he says with a shrug. “It was taught.”

“Must have had a great teacher.”

He finds another five-dollar bill and places it into the jar. He smiles sadly. 

Yeah, he thinks. It was you. 

This boy drinks coffee the way MJ does: black, as it is, without the need to soften it with any cream or sugar. I don’t want anything to hedge what I’m getting, MJ explained it. If I asked for it, I want it as it is. All of it. 

This boy types into the rhythm and cadence the way Ned often did to a traditional Filipino song. Bahay Kubo, Ned explained. It’s a traditional folk song about a small nipa hut surrounded by a variety of local vegetables. Pretty cute, right? I like to think that even when I’m working on my own, all focused, I’m not alone in my endeavors.

They are inexplicably engraved into who he is. 

He finds a small piece of Ned talking in his mind when he rewatches Lord of the Rings. He can almost hear MJ explaining to him why a certain art piece is beautiful based on the composition and color palette when he comes across a painting. 

Is he engraved into them?

Do they take pizza orders with jalapeños and sausage so spicy that it makes their tongue burn off? Do they write an extra loop into their a’s and p’s because he told them that they needed a little more flourish to stand out? Do they bounce their legs to make music to the sound of the endless city that’s restless outside their walls?

Or did the spell erase all of that too?

This boy clears out his apartment—something he should have done a long time ago. When they all meant something. 

He looks at copies of photos, feels his heart break over his own face long faded away, only to see pictures of everyone he has ever taken.

Ned’s fifteenth birthday party where they held the Death Star (before it fell apart). His first concert that Aunt May took him to (she didn’t know the band, but she was just happy to be there). Him holding up a tarantula with a scared face with Uncle Ben (ironic). 

The magic has done wonders, completely effective in erasing who he was. Not only did they erase him in the way Photoshop or artificial intelligence can only dream of–but they replaced it.

Ned is holding it by himself, looking proud of his accomplishment. 

May looks as though she’s revisiting a band that she used to listen to back in her day.

Ben has the spider with him as though it was a pet that could do no harm. 

This boy wasn’t just erased. He was replaced. 

He places the photobook, and even if it meant nothing—worse, a painful reminder of it all—he couldn’t get himself to throw it away or shove it in the dark corner of his storage. He placed it underneath his bed. 

Memento—

Just momentarily, always forgotten and left behind. 

The worst day for what should have been the best moment of his life. 

He circles the date on the calendar as though it’s something he accomplished. 

Happy birthday, E.V. says calmly. 

A rough, hollow sound of confetti echoes through the living room, almost as though the confetti fizzled out at the end. 

“Yeah, I shouldn’t have added that feature,” he sighs. “Not exactly what I wanted to hear the first thing in the morning.”

I’m sorry. 

“No, it’s fine.” The boy looks away from the calendar. “Thank you. It was very kind.”

Any plans for the day? It’s a day to celebrate, after all.

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” he says softly. “I treat every day like it’s my birthday.”

You mean you treat your birthday like it’s just an everyday. 

“It’s just a day,” he says. “No big deal.”

I’m sorry, but as they say, it’s your day.

And to that, this boy only smiles. 

Every day is his day, if he’s all that he has left. 

Birthdays are perhaps the only day you let yourself feel like you’re the center of the universe. 

It’s the day you want to remind the world that, yes, today is the day that you were born and you exist and you graced yourself on Earth, and your efforts to simply make it through the year and maybe even try to make the world better are all appreciated… 

Or you want the world to remind you that, yes, today is the day that you were born and you exist and we’re grateful to have you. 

It’s a beautiful day to know that you were born. 

And if we can’t feel that every day, then—

We all deserve to have at least one of those days. 

The market huddles at the corner of the park, collecting its own murmurs and gossip, unwilling to share. 

August in New York is the final culmination of summer. Still hot, still humid, still heavy with the relentless heat radiating from the concrete city. It’s the final time for kids running around to soak in the last breath of summer before school and autumn comes in. 

August is the time to say goodbyes.

He walks between the tents that offer some shade from the sun. Handmade crafts. Water paintings. Plushies that are slotted on desks or in bookstores.

The boy weaves between the people, heading to the little white tent nestled by the front gates of Prospect. A banner in red and blue font titled Web and Sling, clearly and loosely flapping in the wind. 

The cashier has a not-so-subtle dye of red and blue against their brown hair. “Hello,” she says cheerfully as he walks up to her. The boy smiles in return. His first, and perhaps only, interaction of the day. 

Eliza, it says on her name tag.

He orders a large coffee and one cupcake before handing her a crumpled ten that he found in his drawer. Perhaps a gift from his past. 

“Just one? Must be someone’s special treat.”

He chuckles to himself. “For a birthday,” he says softly. 

She blinks, and with it, she provides another. He is about to protest when she says, “It'll be a crime for you to only share one cupcake with someone.”

The words falter on his lips. 

So he wordlessly takes two cupcakes. He’ll indulge today. 

(It is his birthday, after all)

“Tip?” The cashier asks. “All proceeds will go to the statue for Spider-Man.”

He searches his pocket and smiles to find another five-dollar bill—a gift that keeps giving—and places it in the tip jar. “Oh, no, keep it for yourself.”

She blinks, a little struck and insulted by his nonchalance. “But—”

“I’m sure someone like him will be just fine.”

“It’s to commemorate his actions,” she says, almost a protest. “It’s important to remember how much he’s done for us.”

That makes him stop. 

“Can’t argue with that,” he muses and tries to find another five-dollar bill for Eliza. “It’s important to remember.”

After dinner that felt a little more indulgent than usual, he is just tempted to disregard tradition. But he imagines May and all her efforts and what she tried to do for his birthday. 

He doesn’t have a table, so his desk worked just fine. He places his cupcake, having already eaten the other one on his way back. 

He dims the lights in the living room, only lit by the blazing sun setting on the horizon. He sticks a candle on top, which stands more like a tombstone now. And he lights it up. 

His own little indulgence perhaps made this sadder. 

He shouldn’t be sad about this. This is something he should have expected. Something he had to do. 

For the greater good, he thinks to himself as he stares at the candle already melting onto the frosting. 

“Happy, happy birthday,” this boy says softly. “To me.”

And he blows the candles. 

It’s indulgent and a guilty pleasure.

Dead of night when he should be patrolling or going to bed. He pulls his phone out, initially blinded by the light until he dims it so low that he can barely register it. Perhaps it’s on purpose, as though the dim light made it more bearable, as though it softened what he’s watching. 

There is Ned in another haircut, another style of bangs and a fade that makes his head too blocky. Still, the boy’s mind whispers how he would have told Ned that it’s cool and it’s working with the chains and new piercings—

Until MJ tells Ned through the livestream that he looks stupid, and the boy wipes off the grin instantly. She is there in new braids with another look of annoyed fondness. 

They are changing without him. 

Why are you even live-streaming right now? MJ says through the video. It’s not like anyone is watching.

Don’t insult my 4 loyal followers!

This boy, using another burner account, only smiles.

Besides, today’s a special day!

He feels his heart lurch. Could it be...

My man, Paul, just passed his exam! Big ups to my man, Paul!

He simply blinks, feeling that strange sense of grief wash over him. He knows. The spell works perfectly fine. He shouldn’t have expected anything else. 

He should have known. He does. 

It doesn’t hurt anymore—that somehow makes it worse. 

This boy furiously swipes through the folders filled with postcards. 

All the happy birthdays and grievances for his uncle passing, his middle school graduation, and even the internship at Stark Industries. They’re letters written by people who told him how proud they were of him, excited for his next adventure, and that they’ll always be thinking of him. 

Well, not to him anymore.

He picks one up, an illustration of a Mama duck and duckling, and when he opens it, a picture of May, smiling, comes out. 

He was supposed to be in there as well. 

He feels something lodged in the back of his throat. The floor seems to be tilting as he clutches onto the letter. 

With so much going on in your life, [—], I know it can get overwhelming. But remember that you’re not doing this alone. I’m always here for you! 

Ben would be so proud of who you are and what you’re becoming. And I’m so proud of you!

I love you, [—]

May

The absence of the name was a chasm that showed up in the card. This time, his hand gently writes his own name onto the letter that May has left.  

I’m proud of you. I love you—and the empty chasm, the place where the name should be, is haunting and gnawing and deafening.

He tries to voice his own name. He lacks practice. It’s just a gurgle of noise lodged in his throat. 

It’s stupid. It’s only going to hurt. But he had to. 

He takes a pen, and with shaky hands, writes it out. He spells it out because when was the last time he wrote out his own name?

Pete—Park—

He can’t even make it through his own name before tears well in his eyes. 

I’m proud of you. I love you.

He closes his eyes. The words, the literal warmth that comes from May, hug him. 

It’s real. 

Right now, this very moment, she is real, and the memories of them together are real, and she isn’t actually dead, and no one has forgotten about him.

He opens his eyes to see emptiness.

He looks down to see his name smudged on the card fade away. He wipes away the tears as quickly as they appeared—as quickly as his own name. 

And he puts away the letter. 

Each year passes by like a verdict.

The day falls like a scythe.

Another day. Just another day. 

This time, he resolves to treat it like any other day—because it is. 

For so long, he thought he had come to terms with the spell. Or at least, make peace with it. But as he looks at his phone, another reminder that this is another lonely birthday—

There really is no such thing as making peace with grief. You just learn to live around it. 

Because everybody else in the world has perfectly managed to live without him. 

These are the times when the days are long, the year is short. 

Long stretches of his own thoughts and silence, and nothing else. Day after day after day. 

(Today is another one of those days.)

He spends the day just walking through the streets. He visits the library to return the journal articles. He tries to keep himself busy. He gets himself a cup of latte with a side pastry as a treat 

(Just another day of self-care)

My name is [—]

...

Hello, I’m Spider-Man. 

He’s sitting at his desk, typing rapidly on his laptop. 

If he wants to treat it like any other day, then he has to live it as one. And that means work for Spider-Man. 

He keeps the monitor on Tombstone’s crime traffic and activity. He studies the film once more to examine Scorpion’s cybernetic tail and start the process of reverse engineering it in hopes of building out a better counter. He opens a new tab on a different crime lord now, who goes by the name of Hammerhead. 

As his thoughts of being the boy fade and Spider-Man comes into fruition, the curse of time starts to dissolve. He looks up to see that the sun is setting fast. 

Just a few more, and he would have survived. And as a way for a treat, he will eat the cupcake in the fridge—because it’s just another form of self-care. 

His phone buzzes. 

He frowns. 

For today—just for today because today is a self-care day—he filtered his notifications for non-emergencies only.

(He never gets non-emergencies.)

He stops. He feels his body tense. Could be spam. Could be that someone finally managed to infiltrate and hack through E.V. And yet, traitorously, his mind whispers:

But what if…? 

He flips his phone and turns it on.

Congratulations!

For your momentous, special day, order at Little Caesar’s to get 15% off!

This boy couldn’t help but laugh cruelly. 

“At least Caesar is there.”

And with a simple push of a button, he waits. He waits for the delivery guy to come. He hastily opens the door, and the delivery guy looks behind to find this boy with a cupcake and an empty table.

The disbelief and even pity aren’t stated. Only painted in his eyes. Quickly, without bothering to take his tip, he leaves. 

Even he does not wish this boy a happy birthday. 

#

Blink, and you get used to treating a birthday like another day. 

Because it is.

It’s an anniversary. Meaning—

A day to remember. 

(What good is that?)

These are the ways in which he has forgotten, that he promised he never would, and yet, he has:

May’s curl of a lip when she’s being sarcastic. 

May’s knitted blanket for the boy when he was twelve, before the threads had loosened and fallen apart. 

May waving him over to the couch so they could watch the latest episode of that Korean Drama Ms. Park insisted they watch. 

May smiling. 

Her voice... What was the lilt and rhythm and cadence in how she spoke again?

Were her eyes dark brown or light brown? More cedar or ashwood?

Why is he forgetting? How can he be forgetting?

He can’t remember anymore if MJ had two or three freckles on the back of her hand that he always wanted to kiss. If she tilted her head up or down when she snorted so hard with laughter. If she would hug him with her left or right cheek against his chest because that ear could hear his heartbeat better. 

Did Ned prefer Revenge of the Sith or Empire Strikes Back as the best movie? He doesn’t know because he can’t ask anymore. What Ned would have thought about the rapid placement of these artificial language models that still is nothing compared to Jarvis, and man, everyone wants to be such a Stark-wannabe now, right? Did you check the game last night? Because you know I did, and I can’t believe Brunson dropped forty like that against the Nets. The boy used to be able to know—the same way he had the spider-senses- how Ned would talk, but nowadays, he’s forgetting it all. Like a muscle memory fading away. 

He can’t remember. Why can’t he remember?

This boy is doing the best he can to not become a museum of himself. He’s doing his best—that to remember is to live is to remember living. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. 

Because that means he’s living instead of remembering. And remembering is a gun you load against your own head, thinking maybe it’ll jam this time—and it never does and never will. 

Because in some ways, he’s already dead and experiencing the closest thing to it and maybe even beyond it, purer than May ever can achieve because at least her accomplishments will have a lasting legacy that will live on. 

Because the worst part of all is that he remembers it. Or that he’s supposed to.

It’s only before his mind submerges into darkness that he realizes—

Spells aren’t the only way to forget.

Death isn’t the only way to die. 

#

Jean Grey is a girl who remembers everything. 

She is the girl to remember the way he orders at the cafe. She remembers his favorite colors, shows, food, even his preferred shirt to wear throughout the week. 

“You save the black shirt for Wednesdays,” she says.

“Feels like a middle-of-the-week mood.”

Much to her own distress, she remembers all his dialogue from Star Wars or Lord of the Rings, where she reluctantly abides and joins in. Once, he was building the last Lego set for the Battle of Umbara with Ned.

“I have brought peace, freedom, justice and security to my new empire.”

“Your new empire?”

“Don’t make me kill you.”

They looked to her expectantly, who was sitting on the couch with a book. She sighed and placed the book down. 

“My allegiance is to the republic, to democracy,” she said in the most deadpan voice possible. 

Still, they both acclaim huzzah! And she shakes her head in a poor attempt to hide her smile. Still, they both cheered and proceeded to build out the rest of the landscape and the dialogue and the literal enactment of the best fight scene ever told, with him flipping off the coffee table, much to her distress and Ned’s delight. He remembers how she peeked her eyes out of the books to look at them play. 

And all he had hoped was that these silly, stupid moments were something worth remembering for her. 

This is a boy who forgets. 

And that means he forgets that she remembers. 

He’s twirling the digital multimeter like a magic wand. “Because the Divide and Conquer method is when—"

“We want to probe a connector right in the middle to see where we can find the dead spot for the long circuit.”

“We want to probe a connector right in the middle to see where we can find the dead spot for the long circuit.”

They say at the same time. 

The boy blinks. 

“Half-step method.” Jean rolls her eyes.

“So you do pay attention to Angelica’s physics class.”

“No, but I pay attention to you,” she says, more amused before shaking her head. “It’s getting late. Want me to order at Mrs. Park’s again?”

“Sounds good to me. I’ll take—”

“The jeyuk bokkeum, yeah, I know, with a side of mandu. But I’m not going to speak Korean for it, though,” she adds.

He looks up from the circuitry board, confused. “How did you remember that?”

Jean raises her eyebrows. "Because you told me.”

“Oh.”

And with it, he simply goes back to work, silently this time, much to her confusion. 

This is a boy who forgets. 

And that means he never gives others the chance to remember. 

“And you’re sure,” Jean says a little more insistently, sitting on the couch holding a cup of coffee in her hands, “that there’s nothing?”

“Besides my plan with Daredevil to help out against the Ringmaster on Friday night—”

“You really need a better boy’s night out—”

“No, nothing really. Go have fun.”

“It’s a mission. Not a vacation.”

“With Jubilee, Ororo, and Anna Marie. In the Maldives.”

“There might be some team-building activities to improve coordination tactics and camaraderie.”

“Is that what you told Scott?”

“It’s what he told Xavier when he pushed to increase the budget by 10%. He’s a girl’s girl.”

“Suck up.” 

“So you’ll really be okay if I’m gone for the next two weeks?” She asks softly. 

He looks at the calendar as if it would have answers. And if his life is consistent enough, he doesn’t actually live in the ‘I can only figure out the next ten seconds, much less days.’

He blinks, and a part of his body lurches at the sight. 

August 10th. 

He pauses. 

The date. 

It should just be a regular date. 

It can’t.

It’s just another day.

But it didn’t used to be.

He has people who care now. 

But will they remember? 

And he thinks through the past four years. He doesn’t want to make it five. He’s scared that’ll be five.

And somehow, that means he simply swallows the words. 

“You’re looking at the calendar,” Jean says. “Something coming?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“There’s no need for a calendar,” Jean says with a laugh. “If it’s important enough, we should remember it.” 

The weeks without Jean were harder than he’d like to admit. 

He didn’t have enough money for international texting. 

(He was just scared that if given the chance, he’d tell her that the date was coming) 

He simply woke up, did research at his internship, and did the same-old neighborhood patrol. He checked his phone every five minutes, only to have Little Caesar email on discounts for that special day.

Slowly, almost agonizingly, the day rolls around. It will come, and there’s nothing the boy can do to stop it. Ned is gone for the weekend—because even if he remembers the contours of their friendship, the little details still need to be filled in. 

He is about to call Mrs. Park again when he hears knocking on the door and checks his phone. “Little Caesar is getting good at this,” he mutters to himself. 

He opens the door and flinches back to see—

“Scott! How... did you… is it—”

“No one is hurt.”

He blinks. “Okay. That’s good... that’s good.”

“Hey, can I come in?”

The boy looks behind, thankful that the mask is gone, and steps to the side. 

Scott wordlessly comes inside, while the boy quickly turns on EV’s guest function—an emergency blackout that dims the corners of the room where his notes of the latest crime ring are now invisible. The coding project flips into a Steam account with the latest run on Elden Ring. 

It’s a haphazard contingency, but one that Scott doesn’t mind. “Look, the optic fibers can be hooked up to the device,” the boy hastily explains. “Hank and I are still working through the details, but we’re making progress! We can even turn the images of it into some Polaroid photos like Cerebro can do—”

“I didn’t come for a status update,” Scott says assuredly, and the boy blinks. Scott clears his throat and scratches the back of his neck. “Just… wondering if you wanted to hang out.”

“Did Jean put you up to this?”

“She suggested it…” causing the boy to curl his lips, and Scott shrugged. “But we haven’t hung out in a while. You’ve been... MIA.”

He winces. “Yeah, sorry.”

Scott raises his hands. “Hey, I get it. I’m awful at keeping in touch with people too.”

“Yeah,” and with it the boy looks away, “I doubt anyone is as bad as me, though.” He turns to Scott, who was holding a large box.

LEGO Icons 11377: The Lord of the Rings. Minas Tirith.

The boy blinks. “Is that...”

“Ned sent it to me,” Scott says with a shrug. 

“That? That costs like a fortune—”

“And I chipped in,” Scott says amusedly. “Felt right, you know?”

“Oh, I can’t...”

“Ned insisted,” Scott says with a laugh. “He wanted to come, but was occupied. Said that he had this gut feeling to get it and us to build it all together on the weekend.”

The boy swallows. “That... that sounds fun. You think he’d...?”

“It might take us a while,” Scott says with a shrug.

“Maybe a couple of days.”

“Right. And we’ll just set the foundation.”

“As responsible adults who understand project deadlines.”

“Of course.”

And with it, the boy doesn’t pretend to be excited and rushes to clear the coffee table. Momentarily, he stops and turns back. “And Scott?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks... for all of this.”

“No problem,” Scott says. “You’ve been so quiet, we thought you forgot about us.”

“Oh, trust me,” the boy says as he quietly removes the same paper card he’s read over the past four years. “That’s the last thing I would do.”

They get into a comfortable silence, building out the frame of the majestic city. 

“So what do you want for dinner?” Scott asks. 

“Korean okay?”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Scott says. “First time I’ve ever heard you want something and say it’s up to me.”

“Well, it’s just a tradition.” 

Scott stops and frowns. “What do you mean?”

“For tomorrow.” The boy shrugs. “Just a tradition for me to treat myself. I can’t afford anything too indulgent, but you know... self-care.”

“Self-care,” Scott repeats. “You do self-care?”

He makes a wry smile. “Best gift you can give yourself for your birthday.”

Scott freezes, slowly adjusting his glasses. “And,” he says slowly, “when is your birthday?”

He blinks, trying to think, as though he forgot. But how can he forget?

He's just out of practice. 

“Oh, August 10th,” he says, offhandedly. 

August 10th. 

Friday. 

Tomorrow. 

Scott almost breaks the silence they’ve been working in for the past two hours. In that minute of silence, the boy continues to build while Scott thinks through it again and again. They don’t talk. He doesn’t follow up with, "You didn’t know,” even if he should have. 

“It’s tomorrow?” Scott asks. 

The boy looks at him, blinking, confused. “What do you mean?”

As though he was expecting Scott to ever forget they had this conversation in the first place.

Scott says he needs to make a call and leaves the room. He picks up the phone, dials it, and sets it in the emergency setting. 

“I need to talk to you.”

“If you’re here to brag about how wonderful your Lego date went, buzz off, Summers.”

“It’s going great, actually. We’ve had Korean too, a little spicy—”

“Of course you would find it spicy—”

“And just chilled. I learned some stuff too.”

“Haha, you had a great date, and you got lost in his stupid brown eyes or whatever. Look, if it’s important—”

“It’s his birthday tomorrow.”

There is silence through the phone. Long enough for Scott to wonder if Jean Grey hung up. He’s about to call her again when she speaks in a harsh tone. 

“What do you mean?”

“Tomorrow. It’s his—”

“Scott Summers. If you’re just casually mentioning that there is a birthday today. His birthday… like right now—”

“August 10th. Well, today for you, considering the time zone—”

“This isn’t funny!”

“I’m not trying to be funny!”

“He would have told me!” Jean says in distress. “He should have told me. Why didn’t he tell me?”

“Look, I don’t know. But I’m telling you now.”

There is silence on the end again, and Scott is debating if it’s the international distance that’s making the lag.

He knows it is around 5 in the morning there. He knows that they did not go to bed early enough to wake up at that time. 

Had she been up waiting for him to update her?

Finally, after hearing a bunch of groaning on the other end, Jubilee complaining about the hangover, Anna Marie waking up next to the toilet, and Ororo sleeping on the air, Jean hastily calls from the other side.  “I’m on my way. Contact the team and get them ready. I’ll be back soon.”

“Grey, you’re halfway across the world.”

“So I’ll be back tonight. Get to work.”

#           

The boy takes the invitation Scott offers in a heartbeat.

He pretended to mull it over, deliberate it, and told Scott that ‘he would touch back on it’ after clearing his schedule. He had no schedule. 

He walks through the hallway after receiving a text. 

Meet me in the dining hall.

Take your time.

Please. 

Like, actually, walk slower. 

The boy smiles, if not a little confused. The mansion is empty. Quiet. He figured that since the girls are gone, it would be quieter—but Kitty and Kurt and Bobby still exist. It’s a Friday night, he thinks to himself. Not all of us are desperate and without a plan to hang out with friends. 

He reaches the large, looming hall with the entrance into the dining room. It’s dark in there. He frowns and checks his phone.

Dude. Stop right now.

He immediately stops. He waits there for a second—is Scott pulling a prank on him? It isn’t until his phone buzzes again that the boy checks. 

Okay... now you can come in.

The boy types: This isn’t how you’re going to kill me, right?

There is no response. He merely shrugs, hoping that the spider-sense is enough to prepare him for... whatever it is. He takes the turn into the dark room and thinks to himself, perhaps tonight will be fun. 

At the very least, he will have good company for tonight. 

He misses Jean.

If he told her, would she have stayed back?

Maybe...

Maybe—

The light flashes, and he’s momentarily blinded. He blinks back rapidly, almost crouching at the sudden assault on his senses. 

Oh. 

What?

What was happening? 

Scott stands there, with a confetti popper in his hands, and a silly green hat on his head. Kitty whooshes down from the ceiling in a practiced somersault, beaming. Kurt teleports behind and pops two more confetti that feel like gunshots. 

The boy, bewildered, surprised, shocked, scared, rapidly looks around as the crowd of people seems to swarm him. He looks up to find: 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY PETE—

And he cannot finish reading it as his body lurches, and he freezes and recoils from the sight of it. 

A name.

A name erased from memories and the database. 

A name with no meaning. 

But it’s here. 

His name.

They remember. 

It exists. 

Will the spell break and the multiverse fracture and people will be in danger again and May would have died in vain, and he would have let everyone down—

“…Hey...”

They’re calling him right now. 

And it is all... overwhelming. 

It’s an explosion of the senses. 

He topples down, gasping, clutching his ears over the senses of the confetti popping, the sound blasting from the speakers, people shouting and moving around. His skin feels suffocated by the jeans and hoodie that seem to be binding around his neck. 

“Hey... it’s just you—”

And it is just him. 

It is just this boy. 

It has been for so long that... that’s all he remembers and functions. No matter how hard he tried, the boy’s heart whispers and whispers, “I’m safer alone. Everyone is safer without me. I’m safer alone. Everyone is safer without me.”

Because we all deserve a little more love in our lives, and if we can’t have that, then at least let us have the memories of it instead. But—

But memory is a rope binding around the neck, and it’ll never break.

The light right now is burning this boy, and his eyes capture the visible light a hundred times more than a regular person. The sound is vibrating through his skin, shaking him, overwhelming all other thoughts. 

There’s so much heat and noise and sound that he thinks he’s in the center of the sun, and maybe he is because that is how life all starts. 

You ask the stars how life starts, and they respond that it begins with a death, with a collapse of the old one. 

(It hurts to become.)

In this utter vibration, when he thinks this is the eternal reality of feeling everything and being nothing, it all goes dark. 

It becomes still. Until a voice—that voice, that voice and touch and warmth that he’ll always remember—comes to him. 

Hey... It’s me. It’s me. 

Jean Grey.  

Are you okay? Don’t freak out. I... I took away your senses. I’m here.

And he knows. Because even with all of his senses gone, even with everything overloaded and overwhelming, that simple truth will forever remain true: 

I remember this. You breathed for me.

We’ll breathe together, right now. Okay?

I have you. I promise. 

And the boy feels a soft whoosh noise.

Breathing. Because being alive means you breathe, and to breathe means you’re alive. She breathes for him. She breathes with him.  

In.

Out.

It’s slow and steady, and his chest slows down, and the aching buried in his heart feels a little less sharp now, and she is just there with him to slow everything down. 

I’m going to slowly give it back to you. Is that okay?

He thinks he’s nodding. 

Okay. Your touch first.

And he feels a soft balloon land on his head. He feels his own hoodie no longer suffocating his neck. He feels two warm hands rubbing his own. 

Your smell now. 

Burning candles. Chocolate cookies and faint helium. Lavender shampoo that he instinctively knows who it belongs to. 

Taste. Now this should be easy.

And he begins to feel his own mouth curling and spit coiling up. But it’s safe. He didn’t throw up from the experience. He’s safe—

I’m going to do sound now, okay? Just let me know if it gets too much. I’ll dim it low. It’s not as loud right now. I promise. 

And he simply nods in this darkness. 

A low hum of music vibrates. It’s not a rush, but a trickle of sound. Hushed whispering and concern. His heart lurches—he caused that. He made everyone here uncomfortable by making a scene. 

I’m going to give you your sight back... okay? I won’t let go of your hands. 

And holding onto her hands, he feels a slow dimming of light come in. He’s afraid to see everything. But he only sees—

“Jean,” he whispers. 

Her eyes are nothing but warmth and patience that he doesn’t deserve. She is here. 

She was supposed to be having fun halfway across the world. Forget about the heroism and stress and just relax on a tropical island and—God, he is pathetic.

He feels a soft tear on his cheek that she wipes away. “It’s not… this isn’t…”

And he then realizes that they aren’t alone. 

He looks to see everyone, confused, bewildered, shocked. Kitty has her mouth wide open. Bobby, in all his enthusiasm, lets go of the helium balloons that float into the air. Ororo, dignified, has shock and fear in her eyes and is absolutely frozen still. 

The X-Men are surrounding him, terrified that at any moment, he might… he doesn’t know. 

But all in that moment, as the crowd almost surrounds him, with distinct shock in their eyes:

The same faces after Mysterio.

His body lurches at the crowd of faces looking at him. His spider-senses blare out. He’s done something wrong. 

This is his fault. 

They did nothing but show him kindness and companionship, and he’s been begging for it like a pathetic stray dog, and when they –

Jean tugs him. Her hands reach his face to pull him back to her. And he looks past the refracted light through his tears to see her heartbroken. Disappointed. 

His fault. 

“I’m sorry,” he immediately croaks out. He furiously wipes it away. “I… this isn’t… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

Sorry for what? Existing? Wanting to exist? Wanting to be acknowledged that he existed? 

It’s too late. The damage has been done. 

So he does what he always has. If there’s a problem, the reality is that it tends to be him. 

So he takes himself away one more time.

No spell necessary. 

He turns around and runs. 

#

Scott first makes the assessment. 

He makes the plan. 

First and foremost, diffuse the situation. He approaches the rapidly pacing girl who’s blowing up the tables left and right, about to run after the boy. 

“Jean.”

She doesn’t hear him, stuck in her loop of thoughts instead. 

“I messed up. I messed up. Shit. Shit. I didn’t ask about his birthday. I didn’t know if he even wanted this big celebration. And I should have asked. Shit—”

“Jean.”

She looks up, tears already swelling in her eyes. And in a softer voice, he says to her, “Let me handle this.”

“What? No! He’s crying, and you can’t just expect me to—”

“Calm down the team first. Let me… let me talk to him. Trust me. Please.” 

“This is the worst birthday party I could have ever done for him,” she furiously whispers to herself, wiping away her last stubborn tear. Still, having an objective seems to have helped her. It’s helping Scott. 

“Are you kidding? Remember when we gave Jubilee those fireworks?”

She chuckles for a bit before looking back inside, the rest of them looking confused and worried. “I’ll talk them down.” And she gives him a pointed look. “And you think you can—”

“I’ll try.”

She squints at him. “What makes you think you can help him now?”

“Because I want to.”

And with it, she wordlessly goes back to the dining room. “Ten minutes,” she mutters. “Then I’m coming.”

He smiles at that. She really does trust him. 

“You need to stop hanging off ledges, man. It’s dangerous.”

The boy flinches. Scott sighs before simply joining him, feeling his legs dangle off the rooftop. 

“Sorry,” he says and begins to wonder if he’ll ever get sick of repeating that word. “It’s just… the feeling of nothing under your feet.”

“So you don’t feel like you’re sinking.”

“Yeah… exactly.”

They sit there for a while, until Scott brings out two cans. He hands one to the boy wordlessly, who takes it without a second thought.

 “If you could have any superpowers,” Scott says. “What would it be?”

The boy looks at him, confused, and considers it for a bit. “Doctor Strange’s sorcery is cool,” he admits. “But—”

“Too wonky?”

“Too wonky.”

“Flight,” The boy admits. “Sometimes I just see Storm or Jean fly, and it’ll make you wonder how it feels to just be so free like that.”

“Yeah. But I would feel so—”

“Restless?”

“Exactly.”

The boy nods and looks down, the ground all the way underneath them. “It probably wouldn't do me good to fly,” he confesses. “I think it’d be better for me to feel the ground underneath my feet, you know?”

Scott nods at that. “Yeah, I get that. I think for me—”

“Wait, you already have superpowers.”

“You mean my access to the punch dimensions?”

The boy laughs. “Yeah, that.”

“It’s lame.”

“It’s not lame at all!”

“Come on. I should have gotten something like Spider-Man's abilities or something. Now that’s cool.”

“He’s not that cool—”

“You’re just being a hater,” Scott says, shaking his head. “It’s not just what you do but how you do it. And the dude makes them the coolest.”

“...Alright then,” the boy says with a softer smile. “What powers do you want? Other than the eye-punches.”

“Super strength,” Scott admits.

“You bench like 400lbs.”

“350.”

The boy scoffs at that while Scott simply smiles shyly. “That’s still incredible,” the boy says. “You should try out for like, the NFL combine or something. The Jets could use you.”

“Not even Spider-Man could save the Jets right now.” And the boy laughs, while Scott simply shakes his head and continues. “It’s boring, I know. But… just the idea that you can carry anything and, I don’t know, feeling like nothing is going to overwhelm you—”

“Makes you feel safe even if you feel like you’re carrying the weight of the world.”

“Yeah… exactly.” Scott breathes in the night air. “But... it’ll be really hard to be so strong all the time.”

The boy looks at him. “You think?”

“Everything is just... made of cardboard boxes or glass, you know? That you can’t hold onto anything so tight because you know it’ll break. Must be hard having super-powers,” Scott muses.

The boy looks at his own hands. “I haven’t thought of it like that.”

Scott takes a sip before staring out. The boy appreciates the small silence between them, and patiently waits for Scott to speak. 

“When I was at the orphanage,” Scott says, “I hated my birthdays.” He turns to him, surprised, while Scott merely continues. “The place wasn’t... Well, it wasn’t the best place in the world. But,” and with it, the boy sees some fraction of memories hiding behind those glasses, “but it was home, or so I thought. You take what you get.” Scott turns to him and shrugs. “It wasn’t like this place, all nicely polished up and about the mutant cause. It was more about...”

“Survival?”

“That’s putting it nicely,” Scott chuckles. “There are some things I don’t even remember,” he admits. 

The boy frowns. “Trauma blocks?”

Scott nods. “That’s what Emma thinks, when we,” and gestures back to his head.

“Do your telepathic make-out sessions?”

Heat blossoms in his cheeks. “I was going to say a therapy session.”

“That sounds super unethical, dude.”

“But kind of hot... right?”

The boy thinks about how Jean might enter into his mind, the way she did just then, with different intentions, and he immediately stops his brain—“I may or may not see your point,” he begrudgingly admits. 

Scott snorts. “Of course you can.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Scott chuckles. “The point is, I don’t remember a lot, but I do remember some, enough to know that I don’t want to remember.. And... birthdays were one of them.”

“But not in a good way.”

“No,” Scott admits. “Not really.”

The boy sighs. “I’m sorry to hear that, man. Really. But it’s not the same. At least for you, it’s valid.”

Scott frowns. “Who’s to say yours isn’t?”

“It’s still, I don’t know, not the same. The birthdays,” and he gestures back to the mansions, “when it all happened, I don’t know what came of me. It was just... just another reminder of—”

They spoke at the same time:

“Everything I lost.”

“Everything you lost.”

Scott smiles too sympathetically when the boy almost flinches back, caught off guard. “Did...” he says uncertainly, “did Jean—”

“Jean will tell me everything about you but the things that are private,” Scott says with a raised hand. “No. I knew... just because,” he shrugs, “it’s the same look I had when they threw me a surprise birthday too.”

“They tried that… on you?”

“Kurt and Kitty got it together. And they only got it together because…”

“Because Emma told them that if they did, she would bump their grades?”

“Never happened,” Scott says flatly. “And that Kurt and Kitty were always exceptional students in her class.” The boy chokes out a laugh. “And so when it all happened, I just freaked out. And I ran away. Emma had to talk me down, do a little digging to see why I just... panicked.” 

“You too, huh?”

“Yeah,” Scott says. “I don’t know how they all tolerate me at times. I can be rigid—”

“You’re firm.”

“A pain in the neck—”

“You hold people accountable.”

“Insensitive—"

“You’re only honest with people.”

“And I keep messing up. I keep hurting people no matter how hard I try not to.”

He stops himself from talking. Scott wryly smiles. 

“No rebuttal for that?”

“Hit a little close to home,” the boy admits.

Scott nods, and they simply sit, letting their legs dangle, feeling a small nip with the dying summer night. “I’m sorry,” Scott says. “About...” And he gestures back behind them, something that the boy ran away from.

“Don’t be. It’s my—”

“Not everything is about faults.”

“But I am, though. Being sorry.”

“Yeah,” Scott says. “Me too.”

“It’s okay. It was really thoughtful and nice, and I’m really happy.”

“But...?”

“A lot of things happened,” the boy whispers, “that make me feel sad about it too.”

“Then I’m sorry,” Scott says, “about whatever happened to make you sad about this. That it’s something bad enough to make you feel sad about it for a long time.”

He blinks back some tears. “Thanks. But it’s also my fault—and I know what you said, I listen, dude—it's just... I brought it to myself, you know?”

“That doesn’t make your pain any less valid.”

“That’s what they say, but I made the bed, so I have to sleep in it.”

“Is what you did something morally wrong? Don’t go all “I’ve been a terrorist and far from redemption” that Jean and Emma do.”

“I’m sure they’ll be happy to be lumped together.”

“Did you?”

He sighs. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I just... it felt like the right thing to do. Didn’t mean it made it easier, though.”

“Then I hope you know that whatever you had to do... you know it wasn’t the wrong choice, even if it feels like it.”

“You think so?”

“We do what we can in the time we’re given. And I think that means... we all deserve a little grace from ourselves. Don't you think so?”

The boy came down with Scott after they shared a can of beer, after Scott told him to not take too long with the heartfelt conversation, after Scott really said that this doesn’t change anything, so they should just all celebrate and be happy because they are. 

The two came down the stairs, and immediately, Jean hovered over, desperate to comfort him, scared that she was suffocating him. 

“I’m sorry—”

“Wait,” he says with his hands raised, and Jean immediately stops in her tracks. 

He looks at her and feels his heart break at the sight of her so sad and worried, when all she tried to do was make something meaningful. The last thing he wants to do right now is hear an apology from her.

So instead, he opens his arms and hugs her.

He can feel her stiffen within his embrace. He buries his head between the nook of her shoulders, feels the curls of her hair tickle his cheek, and stays there. He breathes her in and out. 

“Hey,” Jean says softly. “I...”

“I missed you,” he says. He can feel her hug him back, squeezing him tight. 

“I missed you, too."

“The week was really lonely without you,” he admits. 

“But why—”

“Didn’t I text you? I thought… I don’t know, you were on vacation—”

“Team training—”

“And just having fun with your family—”

“You’re part of it—”

“And… I guess I got scared that…” He sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry for not reaching out.”

“No, the whole, you know, birthday thing. For not telling you.”

“I was hurt,” she admits. “Because you didn’t tell me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? Because you thought it didn’t matter? Because you thought I wouldn’t care? You know I remember these things about you.”

“I think that’s why.” He closes his eyes. “I was just… scared.”

“What do you mean?”

He lets out a shaky breath, and she hugs him tighter. “Do you want to know what I wished for the past four years?”

“If you tell me, they won’t come true.”

He makes a sour smile. “Well, they already didn’t.”

“Tell me,” she says, sparing a look at him with a new fire in her eyes. “Tell me, and I’ll do whatever in my power to make it happen.”

“You can’t… but thanks.”

“I have the power and money now,” she says, a little more determined, with an edge that made him unable to quip back with anything. “And I’ll even rule this world, just for the day, so that I can give you what you want.”

He cracks a smile at that. 

“The penthouse that looks out on Central Park.”

“Done. The whole building will be yours.”

“New York.”

“The city? Or the state?”

He chuckles. She still looks at him, a small smile but a serious stare.

“I wished people would remember.”

She blinks. “Hey…”

“It’s silly, I know. I know.”

“It’s not silly at all.”

“Each time I blew out the candle, I would just… kinda hope that the wish would cancel out the spell and there, Ned or MJ would come through the door and tell me that I shouldn’t celebrate my birthday like… well, alone. That no one really deserves to celebrate a day meant for them alone.”

She softens a bit. “But you did.”

“Yeah.” He feels another rush of emotions that he thought died out of him for the past four years. “I just…”

He chokes up, and she hugs him tighter. “It’s hard to want things,” he says quietly, “when the world now no longer will ever see that.”

He rests his chin on her head and shivers. She rubs his back, feeling him tremble. “I’m already forgetting May... her smile, the color of her eyes, the words that she uses, the cadence of it all. I’m already forgetting. How?”

She is silent for a while. “Do you trust me?” She whispers. 

“Yes,” he says immediately.

Then slowly, with ease, she gently caresses her hand against his cheek, and he closes his eyes to make sure that the last thing he sees is her. 

...

...

...

The boy opens his eyes to warmth.

The sunlight is gentle against his cheek. There is a breeze that’s soft. People are laughing in the grass field. He finds himself on a bench. He blinks. 

Whose memory is—

And a person walks towards the bench and sits next to him. The boy blinks, a striking familiarity that he cannot quite capture. 

She’s beautiful. 

Blonde hair and sharp blue eyes. She has bangs that sweep across her forehead. Intelligent. And instantly, he knew:

Sara. 

“You doing alright?” Jean’s sister asks gently. He wordlessly nods, and somehow, she seems to be able to see through that. “You don’t have to pretend, not with me.”

That catches him by the throat. And only then, he shakes his head. “I... I messed up again. I got scared, and I pushed people away. Kept more secrets. This is my fault—”

“It’s not your fault,” she says firmly, which makes him not be able to argue back. She takes his hands. “It isn’t your fault.”

He can only nod. 

“We’re all born with our gifts and faults,” Sara says. “And those who love us will never see that as a burden.”

“They shouldn’t have to deal with—”

“You have to know the people you love are going to hurt you. The people who you love will be hurt by you... That’s just how this all goes. But it’s worth it. It’s worth it, okay?”

“Okay,” he manages to choke out. 

“Don’t lose your heart over this. I know home is far off and we don’t know what’s going to happen to us... but we’re going to be alright, you and I.”

And with it, Sara hugs him. He feels a little lodge in his throat. He doesn’t realize that he keeps crying—why is he always crying? 

He feels himself shaking. And he asks the question, that question that is forever lodged in his heart:

“What if it feels hard to be lovable?” 

“Then know that all the love that comes afterwards is on purpose.”

He closes his eyes, feeling her warmth surround him. 

He’s twenty-two. And inside of him—

Is still that boy. This boy:

An eighteen-year-old boy, scared of what the future holds, grieving the last member of his family because of his own doing. The sixteen-year-old boy desperate to be treated like an adult. The fourteen-year-old is grieving the loss of his uncle, scared of what will happen to him and his aunt. Twelve-year-old boy, watching Captain America and Iron Man leap through the obstacles, punch the bad guys, and save the day and dreaming, I’m going to do that someday. 

Inside, no matter how strong he got, there’s still that little boy in him that’s scared and hurting and lonely. And as Sara is hugging him, she hugs all of those little pieces still lodged inside of him.

...

...

...

There is a boy. 

(There will always be that little boy deeply seeded within him)

Inside, there is that little boy screaming, “I’m safer alone. Everyone is safer without me. I’m safer alone. Everyone is safer without me...”

And there is now a man. He holds the little boy, whispering, “We’re going to be alright. We will love. We will be loved. We’ll lose a lot and be sad along the way. Yes. But there’ll be much laughter and joy too. We’re going to be alright. We’re going to be alright...”

That little boy is still screaming.

That gentle man is still promising.

(They are both learning how to trust each other)

And with it, the boy opens his eyes. 

...

...

...

“You’re a really special person, and I hope that will make you feel really great about yourself... but I know sometimes it doesn’t.”

The boy feels that he cannot breathe. He remembers this. He will always remember this. 

Because now, it’s both his and her memories. 

Together. 

But this is what I want you to know:

You’re beautiful. 

And the people who love you, 

Will love you not because you’re special but

Because we love you because you’re you. 

I want you to remember that... even if it feels like you’re totally alone. 

That’s your deepest responsibility. Never forget that, no matter how powerful you become.

...

...

...

You have me

...

...

...

The boy gasps as he’s pulled out of the dream. 

The memory that faded away still carves deeper into his heart. It’ll stay there forever. And he wants it no other way. 

And what do you know, he thinks. Her eyes are the shade of cedar brown.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “For showing me... everything.”

Her hands are still holding onto his cheeks. She looks up to him. “That was Sara. The day after we decided to... leave. And it was just us.”

“She was incredible.”

“She really was,” Jean says. 

“Can I ask... why that one?”

“What happened was... I freaked out. My powers happened, all at once, and everything came crashing in. I was taking in so many thoughts that it was just... overwhelming.” She slightly squeezes his cheeks. “And I thought... you deserve to have Sara talk to you like that.”

“Yeah,” the boy admits. “I did.”

“Can I ask why you wanted to keep this a secret from me?”

“For so long… nobody cared. And if that’s the case, I had to catch up and not care myself. It’s easier to just… just numb it, make it almost fade away from the pain. Better than this… I don’t know, longing.”

“Then I need you to know,” she whispers, looking up, “that I do care. I care about you and your dreams and what you had for lunch the day before and how your patrols went and what that stupid new article says about heat shock proteins—no, don’t start now—and what it might mean for the mutant or mutate cause, and I do care about every little detail in your life because they’re not so little because it is your life and that’s something I’ll always care about.”

The beating of his chest is loud against her, so fast and hard, that he imagines it to bruise his own chest.

And even then, at this moment, she dares to offer more. 

Jean whispers, so loud that it rings through his ears. It shakes him. It unravels everything inside of him, and he is as though he’s thrown out of his own body. 

“Peter Parker.”

His name. 

Peter Parker opens his eyes to see her looking up at him with adoration. She remembers. She will always remember.

“Can I...?” And gestures with her hands to his head. “For my gift, right now.”

“There’s more?”

“I will always give you more, Peter Parker.”

And with a small nod, she touches the side of his temple, and his mind is flooded. Her thumb gently caresses his eyes. 

Memories. Flashes of memories of himself. From her. 

Peter

Parker.

His name comes from her voice and her mind. She lets him see—everything. 

I think Peter Parker has the softest brown eyes; Peter Parker is sweeter than honey. Peter Parker‘s words are like jazz music with improvisation and fun. Peter Parker is the type of person who makes the smallest details matter. 

Peter Parker is the type of love to make it ever so kind and soft and gentle and strong and patient. 

Peter Parker. 

I love you, Peter Parker. 

And I’m so proud of you. 

You’ll always have me, 

Jean. 

Peter doesn’t realize he’s crying until Jean’s thumb gently wipes it away. Her hands are placed on his cheeks, and she simply smiles at him. He opens his mouth, but she cuts it off.

“No,” she says. She rests her forehead against his. “Don’t... don’t respond. I don’t want you to see all of that and feel this need to think you need to say something in return. Just sit with it—my memories, my thoughts, and—” she briefly looks away, her cheeks flushed, “my promises. Just... just sit with it, please?”

“Jean... I...” And she looks up to him, her eyes beautiful blue in their own fractured state of tears of adoration; he simply swallows. 

It’s what you deserve, Peter Parker. 

And then more. 

“Thank you,” he whispers. “It’s the best gift I’ve ever had.”

“A memory flash?” She asks, amused.

“Us.”

She opens her mouth before closing it, heat flushing through her cheeks. He smiles and kisses her forehead. They both ignore the small squeak she makes. 

“Come on,” she mutters, quickly turning away, and Peter can see the small flush of red on the tips of her ears, blending with the rest of her hair. “Don’t keep them waiting. The party will continue until morale improves around here.”

When he enters the room, with Jean holding onto his hand like an anchor, the room is hushed. He tilts his head down, almost scared of what’s to come, scared of the sight and the hearing and the senses exploding through him once more. 

He’s scared to let them down.

Maybe he’s trembling, mentally screaming because Jean looks back and gives him a smile. She squeezes his hand.

The lights are dim. The music is a soft, steady hum of lo-fi. There are scented candles as part of the mix, and the harsh colors of decorations are swept away. 

Storm, unreadable as always, like looking through the eye of the hurricane, composes a quiet stare of serenity, as though she were personally holding the silence in the air as something comfortable rather than awkward. 

Kurt flashes up front, hands folded together as though he were in prayer. His fingers trace the rosary, another request for grace for everyone. 

Jubilee and Kitty stand together, hands folded, mouths shut, for once choosing silence as a way of peace. Anna Marie pulls down another decoration to leave only the banner, and dims the lights into a comfortable setting that doesn’t make the boy wince. Emma simply stands in the back, looking onto the scene with quiet curiosity. Even pensive. 

In the front, there is Scott Summers with his back turned. 

They all stood very still, for that brief second. He wonders if Jean froze Westchester. 

But it’s in this silence that the boy truly looks at them all. He looks to the X-Men, a crowd of misfits and scoundrels and those shunned and abandoned by society. They, of all people, know what it’s like to feel abandoned and left alone. 

Scott turns around, holding out a cake with candles. And with it, he simply says, “Surprise.”

The boy simply laughs. 

“A cake? You guys shouldn’t have.”

And the whole room exhales in relief.

The boy is here, sitting at a table. 

And for once, he is not alone. 

He spent the first hour holding his breath, bracing for catastrophe, but somewhere between the first dinner with pizza, the second dinner with Remy’s famous house-chili, and desserts with Angelo’s chocolate cakes that are to die for, he exhales. 

He lets Kurt transport in and out of his sight with more food to stuff him in, and it is a good thing he’s always hungry. Jubilee lets out soft crackles as a tentative start—because birthdays always need some flair to it. Bobby blows over the boy’s slice of cake, arguing that it’s ice cream cake, much to everyone’s despair. Angelica comes over, gives the boy a kiss on the cheek for his birthday. He takes more food offered by Anna Marie. And sitting between Scott and Jean, he really does believe in another form of magic.

This. This is a different type of magic.

This is a different type of spell. 

Jean’s hand continues to be persistent and finds his knee beneath the table or his hand on the table or arm leaning against it. It is so warm and simple. He wants to simply web this moment into his brain and engrain it forever. 

He feels light in his head as though happiness is a drink that he can keep drinking. He feels warmth, so warm that it’s almost a flushing sense of heat with the way bodies move around. The music turns into dance, because of course! It's a party. 

It’s their duty to dance and sing along with it. 

They clear the tables. Jubilee twirls him around. Kurt transports behind him, and they both somersault in the air. And though he can catch himself, Kurt doesn’t let him go. He laughs as he falls.

They all dance until their limbs ache, until sweat paints their skin, and the air becomes too thick to breathe. Anna Marie does a two-step, sliding to the right, while Ororo abandons dignity for something better, joy, and follows along with her. Scott, with two left feet, tries to follow along as Remy teaches him patiently how to jig. 

Jubilee sings to the music. He doesn’t know the lyrics, but it’s still something he can follow along. Because we don’t need to know how to be happy. We never need to ask for permission to sing. 

He lets himself be moved through the music. 

He looks around, and he wonders who and how and where this all came from, knows it to be too good to be true, and leads it all back to the source.

Jean stands in front of him, bumping her hips, swaying to the groove. 

And the boy looks back at the girl who has always been looking back at the boy. 

Peter looks at Jean through it all, and she simply smiles, and everything inside of him moves. 

Love.

Love. 

“Hey,” Peter whispers to her, feeling his breath trying to catch up to all this rush of excitement and fun. 

“Hey,” Jean whispers back. “This is all for you.”

“Thank you,” he says. 

And really, that’s all he can say. 

Thank you. You’re here. 

I have you.

Thank you.

I don’t deserve this—

No. But love isn’t about deserve is it?

Because again and again, this is how they’ll choose each other. 

Because again and again, we need to choose to trust in love. One more time. 

Always. Just one more time. 

“You changed my life,” Peter whispers to her. 

No place like home. No place like her. 

The last song plays, but they both know that this is the type of music that stretches on forever. He extends his hands because this is the boy who will always reach out to her. She takes it because this is the girl who will always take it. 

They sway with the music.

One step, here. Slide. A little hope.

A fluster. A joke.

Something to tease.

Something to laugh with.

A promise that they’ll both come through.

Here—they both

Make something new. 

This is how they finish the final song: with an intimacy that they will never want to recover from. 

“It’s not much—”

“It’s everything I could ask for—”

“You don’t even know what it is—”

“I’m still grateful for it.”

The boy sits back down. Some people are cleaning up the mess behind, bringing in the final desserts. Angelo, the man with scrambled eggs to die for and dessert to kill. He brings in what they all consider to be manna from heaven along with a box wrapped up.

The boy blinks. “Yeah, like I said, I love it.”

“Just open it up first,” the girl says, more amused now, anything to hide the worry in her voice. 

He wordlessly takes off the wrapping and opens it to find a book of memories. He blinks, stunned. 

He opens the book, pages filled with photos. 

Of him.

It’s him and all the ranges of him smiling and laughing and cringing and even crying. 

He checks it again. He closes the book. Breathes out. 

In.

Out.

“Take your time with it,” the girl whispers. 

He traces the edges. It is... it is him. 

Laughing. Smiling. 

There is one where he is leaning against Kurt and Jubilee. Running through the halls with Kitty. There is one where he snuck in to examine Cerebro with Scott. “Yeah,” Scott says with a sigh. “They caught us.”

They all laugh. 

He flips them over, seeing all the pictures of everyone laughing and smiling. 

“How did…”

Jean taps her mind. “I asked everyone here for their memories. And from then, a little bit of magic with that neuron-optics you kept talking about with Scott.”

He turns, mouth open, to Scott, who simply shrugs. “I remember too,” he says. 

Peter looks back to Jean. “But you were on a plane…”

“She had help.”

He whips his head to see Emma lean back with her arms crossed, smug. 

“Emma…”

“She begged and begged, pleaded, went to her knees to get me to help her,” Emma scoffs while Jean rolls her eyes. “It was only because I was gracious—”

“Scott asked her nicely,” Jubilee says instead. 

“Well, I just asked, and I knew she would do it. Not for me,” he says as he approaches Emma and bends to kiss her cheek before turning back to Peter with a sheepish smile. “But for you.”

He blinks, while Emma simply shrugs, unwilling to confirm or deny it.

He looks through the photos again and again, unable to get tired of them.

They’re memories. Yes, he lost all of the old ones. He’ll never get it back.

But he can make new ones now. 

The tears come. And he lets them. 

“I… I don’t know what to say,” he struggles to say past his sniffling. 

“There’s nothing you do need to say,” Jean says softly. And with it, she kisses his cheek. 

“But you guys have done so much for me already.”

Jean turns to the group and gives them a shrug. A cue.. “Well, not everything. We still didn’t say it.”

“Say what?”

The X-Men all look at each other. They give each other silly grins because here, right now, this is all that matters. The room is quiet, marked only by the soft dim of candles and the moon shining outside, peeking in to see a family. They all gather their breath for the final truth. 

And it’s at that moment, the boy resolves to remember this. Forever. 

“Happy birthday, Peter Parker!”